The Zurich Effect

Let's have it 1B

Alright. Fine. The man was objectively attractive in that annoying way where it seemed illegal. Sharp jawline, dark hair, eyes that suggested he knew exactly how good-looking he was and found it tedious.

"He's acceptable," Zuri managed.

"Acceptable? The man looks like he was photoshopped by angels."

Zuri had no response to that. The man did look like he'd been photoshopped by angels, possibly ones with excellent taste and unlimited budgets.

"He's half-Russian, half-Greek," Sophie continued, because apparently she'd already memorised his Wikipedia page. "Based in London but travels constantly. Single. No social media presence except LinkedIn, which is somehow even hotter."

"You need help," Brad observed.

"You need to appreciate male beauty."

"I appreciate it fine. I just don't google it during work hours."

Their debate was interrupted by voices in the corridor. Loud voices. Voices that suggested an argument was happening and neither party cared who heard it.

"I'm simply saying, Linda, that Client Relations should have been consulted before you accepted this account." The voice was smooth, confident, American. Victoria Chen. Head of Client Relations. Linda's professional nemesis.

"The client specifically requested our analytical approach," Linda's voice responded, cooler. "Not a marketing presentation."

"Analysis without proper client engagement is just expensive paperwork."

"And engagement without substance is just expensive theatre."

The door opened. Victoria Chen swept in like she was entering a stage rather than a beige office. Tall, immaculate in a suit that probably cost more than Zuri's monthly rent, with the particular confidence of someone who'd never been told no in any language.

Behind her came her team. Marcus Webb, who looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Sienna Park, already on her phone. And trailing behind them, a man Zuri hadn't seen before.

He was tall, British in that way that suggested old money and older schools, with dark hair and the kind of sharp features that belonged in a museum. He wore glasses that were definitely not necessary but probably cost a fortune, and he carried himself like someone who'd calculated his own brilliance and found the results satisfactory.

"Linda," Victoria said, her smile sharp. "I've brought my team to discuss the Volkov account."

"We're handling it."

"Are you? Because I've just spoken to Klaus, and he seems to think collaboration might be beneficial."

"Collaboration," Linda repeated flatly.

"Yes. You know. When two departments work together. Like professionals." Victoria's eyes swept the room and landed on the half-dead succulent on the windowsill. "Though I can see why you might find that concept foreign. How is your office plant, by the way? Still clinging to life?"

"Our plant is fine."

"It looks suicidal."

"Perhaps it's absorbing the energy from this conversation."

Marcus made a noise that might have been a suppressed laugh. The British man behind him merely raised an eyebrow, like the entire exchange was beneath him but mildly amusing nonetheless.

"Right," Victoria said, clearly choosing to ignore that. "Klaus wants both departments to collaborate on the Volkov pitch. Analysis provides data, Client Relations provides presentation. We combine our strengths."

"We don't need our data prettified," Lars observed.

"You absolutely do. Have you seen your PowerPoint templates? They're from 2015."

"The data hasn't changed since 2015. Why should the template?"

"Because clients have standards."

"Clients have standards," the British man said suddenly. His voice was cut glass and old libraries. "But not all clients value aesthetics over accuracy. Some of us can appreciate rigorous analysis without needing it dressed up like a marketing pamphlet."

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Sorry, who are you?" Brad asked.

"Tristan Ashford-Price. Senior Strategist, Client Relations." He said it like he was announcing minor royalty. "I've been reviewing your department's work. It's... thorough. If somewhat lacking in narrative cohesion."

"We're not writing novels," Amélie said. "We're writing reports."

"Yes, I noticed. Seventeen-page reports that could be summarised in three slides."

"Three slides wouldn't capture the nuance."

"No, but they might capture the client's attention span."

Lars stood up, which was always dangerous. "The client specifically requested comprehensive analysis."

"The client," Tristan replied smoothly, "likely said that because he didn't know what else to ask for. Most people default to wanting 'comprehensive' when what they actually want is 'useful.'"

"Are you suggesting our work isn't useful?"

"I'm suggesting your work would be more useful if anyone actually read it."

The office went very quiet. Amélie looked like she was contemplating violence. Lars was doing calculations that probably involved Tristan's statistical likelihood of survival. Sophie was recording the whole thing on her phone.

Linda stepped forward. "Tristan, is it?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been with the company?"

"Three months."

"Fascinating. I've been here twelve years. During which time, Analysis has consistently delivered the highest client retention rates in the firm." She smiled, and it wasn't friendly. "Perhaps when you've been here longer than a probation period, you'll understand why."

Tristan didn't look remotely bothered. If anything, he looked more interested. "Client retention is important. So is client acquisition. Which requires knowing how to communicate with people who aren't statisticians."

"Dmitri Volkov is a quantitative analyst."

"Dmitri Volkov is also human. Which means he responds to narrative, emotion, and presentation. Not just numbers."

"You've met him?" Linda asked, her tone sharpening.

"Briefly. Last year. He was considering using our services for his previous company. Ultimately declined, but I was involved in the pitch."

"He declined," Linda repeated. "And yet you're here telling us how to win him?"

"I'm here telling you how to not lose him. There's a difference."

Victoria was watching this exchange with barely concealed glee. Marcus looked increasingly uncomfortable. Sienna was definitely live-tweeting.

"Right," Victoria said brightly. "So we're all agreed. Collaboration. First meeting tomorrow, nine AM, conference room B. Don't be late."

"We have our own meeting schedule," Linda said.

"Yes, and I'm sure it's very efficient and very boring. See you tomorrow." Victoria turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Linda? You might want to water that plant. It's affecting your department's energy."

She swept out. Her team followed. Tristan paused at the door, looked back at the office with an expression of faint disdain, and then left.

The door closed.

The office sat in silence for a moment.

"I hate him," Lars said flatly.

"Seventeen-page reports that could be three slides," Amélie mimicked in a posh British accent. "Who does he think he is?"

"Someone from Oxford, probably," Brad said. "That was definitely an Oxford accent."

"Cambridge, actually," Sophie said, already googling. "Tristan Ashford-Price. Cambridge, then Harvard Business School, worked at McKinsey for three years before coming here. His LinkedIn is aggressively impressive."

"Of course it is," Min-jun muttered.

Linda was still standing by the door, looking thoughtful. "This is going to be interesting."

"That's one word for it," Zuri said quietly.

She hadn't spoken during the entire exchange. Just watched. Observed. Noted that Tristan Ashford-Price was exactly the type of man who thought being clever was the same as being right. The type who'd calculated his own worth and decided everyone else should be grateful for his insights.

Her father worked with men like that. Men who thought pedigree and education meant they understood everything. Men who spoke over women and called it "providing perspective." Men who needed to be the smartest person in every room.

She'd learned how to handle them. Mostly by letting them talk until they realised she hadn't been listening.

The morning chaos was interrupted by the lift doors opening. A man walked in. Six-foot-something, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Zuri's rent, with the particular confidence of someone who'd never been told no in any language.

"Morning," he said, Swiss-German accent wrapping around the English. "I'm Luca."

Zuri's chocolate-brown eyes met his, and she saw the exact moment recognition flickered across his face.

Oh no.

They'd met before. Briefly. At some excruciating charity gala her mother had forced her to attend. He'd been holding court about sustainable investing whilst drinking champagne that cost more per glass than most people's weekly shop. She'd told him his tie was trying too hard. He'd laughed and asked for her number. She'd given him the number for a pizza delivery place.

"Zuri Okonkwo," she said smoothly, extending her hand like they'd never met. "Welcome to the team."

His handshake was firm, his smile dangerous. "Have we met before?"

"I have one of those faces. Very common."

"Interesting. I usually remember faces. Especially ones that insult my fashion choices."

Sophie's radar activated immediately. "You two know each other?"

"No," said Zuri.

"Apparently not," Luca agreed, but his eyes said otherwise.

Min-jun looked between them like he was watching a tennis match. "This feels significant."

Zuri said nothing. Sometimes silence was safer than lies.